


the new crowd

by trite



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Finn/Rey (Star Wars), Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trite/pseuds/trite
Summary: Four people Armitage Hux (aged 35, and counting) talked to on the way to recovery.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40
Collections: Hoelidays Gift Exchange 2021





	the new crowd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



Hux comes to with a painful strain of shock curling around his muscles, the familiar sound of blasterfire, and someone hovering over him.

He scrambles to sit up, get away, but a hand firmly pushes him back onto the cold floor, gripping his shoulder tight. “Stay down.”

Hux tries to put a face to the voice, but his surroundings are blurry. He tries to focus but he aches everywhere and fails at working through the pain.

He closes his eyes, feeling his world tilt and nausea crawling up his throat. He has no idea what is happening around him and the thought should feel terrifying but he mostly feels tired. His most recent memory is the definite sound of the interrogation room door sliding shut with him on the wrong side of it.

When the hand is removed, he opens his eyes to find Poe Dameron’s absurdly attractive face looking down at him, his silhouette illuminated by the harsh lighting of the _Steadfast_ ‘s overhead lights. They highlight his features in a flattering way instead of washing him out, Hux distantly notes.

“Welcome back. You ready to get out of here?” he says, offering Hux a hand.

Hux feels the ground tilt, feels himself being swept under. He chalks it up the crumbling wreckage around them.

He wakes up in a white, clean, and almost hospitable room. The air lacks the cold almost inhuman quality he associates with any kind of medcenter but he can see various medical equipment surrounding him. It also lacks the oppressive quality of a prison cell, including the one he most recently found himself in aboard the _Steadfast_.

He looks down at his hands. There had been binders around his wrists the last time he had been truly conscious. He flexes his fingers but they’re trapped under a splint. He tries to touch his face to assess the damage but it’s difficult with his immobilized fingers. He hurts but nothing seems irreparably broken.

Hux decides to go back to sleep.

Dameron ( _General Dameron,_ he was told pointedly, after Hux inquired after him. It proved that Dameron had somehow charmed his way to a higher rank) stops to visit in the afternoon. Hux had asked about him since he was, after all, Hux’s alleged savior. Or at least, that’s how he must see himself. In any case, it didn’t mean Hux wanted to be subjected to his presence.

“What am I doing here?” Hux asks.

“Living and breathing. Evidently,” Dameron says, waving a hand in Hux’s direction to better illustrate his point. Behavior befitting of his station, clearly.

“I meant, why did you return to the wreckage? Were you looking for prisoners?”

He drags a chair from the corner and places it in front of the bed, sitting backward on it. “No, we went back for the kids. The ones in the stormtrooper program. We didn’t actually know they would be there, but Finn remembered that being the case in the _Finalizer_. They’re just kids. They deserve a life, a second chance.”

“Are you applying the same principle to me?” Hux asks.

Dameron leans back. “Do you consider yourself a child? That’s disturbing.” He laughs when Hux glares at him but doesn’t answer Hux’s question.

“Did you find them?”

“Some, yes. There actually weren’t a lot of survivors by the time we reached the ship. We found you by accident.” His hands are splayed on the backrest, his fingers minutely following an unheard rhythm.

“What about the other star destroyers? Did you—?”

“No survivors. You were lucky. One of the few lucky ones.” Dameron leans forward in his chair, toward Hux, to better convey his earnestness. As if his soulful gaze didn’t do that all on its own.

“Is this what luck looks like? Being in binders on an enemy base?”

“You’re receiving medical treatment and you’re not _in binders_ ,” Dameron says, exasperation coloring his words.

“Not that you can see, anyway. They still chafe my skin.”

Dameron scoffs and rolls his eyes. “That’s deep.”

Hux turns to look in the opposite direction. He stares at the shelf on the wall to his right; the view is a considerable downgrade. He needs to stop giving him attention or else he won’t leave, Hux tells himself. _Attention should be a reward that’s not freely given_ , says a voice from his past in the back of his head.

Hux sleeps. More than he has in ages, more than he remembers ever sleeping. He feels bone-deep exhaustion, years of it catching up to him. It’s not smart to lower his guard like that, but he’s too tired to be fully functional, anyway. The more he rests the more alert he’ll be to face whatever comes next, he reasons. He closes his eyes, the flickering light fixture above him lulling him to sleep.

When Hux wakes up, the traitor is sitting on the chair to the left side of his bed. _Two traitors in a room_. It could be a joke if Hux knew how to make one.

“Where’s Dameron?” he asks. Hux would much rather deal with him.

“He’s busy taking care of something else. He’ll be pleased to hear you were asking about him, though.”

“That’s not what I did.” It is but it’s not how he meant it. It’s definitely not how he wants this relayed to Dameron.

“Poe tends to have that effect on people. He’s been telling everyone about all the times someone in the First Order has saved his life.”

Hux scowls. Good to know he’s just another notch in Dameron’s figurative bedpost. “I wasn’t—”

FN — whatever he is calling himself these days — interrupts him and says, “we need to talk about the children we rescued from the _Steadfast_.” The undercurrent of warmth and amusement from just a minute ago is completely gone from his voice. He is firm and business-like.

“What about them?”

He shoots Hux a confused look for a second before shaking his head. “By the time we reached the _Steadfast_ some of the datafiles had been corrupted. I’m guessing a security protocol was triggered. The point is that a lot of the files about the children are incomplete or need an access key to be unlocked. We want your help with that.”

“And what would I get in return?”

He looks at Hux with open disbelief. “You would get to make up for having taken them from their homes and from their families to turn them into your personal murder machines. Quickly replaceable cannon fodder. So interchangeable that it didn’t matter that we ended up as collateral damage since that’s what we were there for, right?”

Hux understands the point he’s trying to make, he just objects to the manipulation hidden behind the overt sentimentalism. “It was war. We all lost things.”

“Things? They were people. In any case, you already lost the war. What’s your excuse now not to help _children_ whose life you were planning on ruining?”

“That’s the problem with you people. You expect to get everything in exchange for nothing.”

“You’re not meant to buy decency and empathy,” he says with disgust. “You know what? Maybe Poe’s wrong. Maybe some people don’t deserve a second chance.”

He leaves without another glance, leaving Hux to feel too small in the subterfuge he submerged himself in. It’s ill-fitting and it threatens to drown him under its strength.

“What did you tell Finn?” Dameron asks when he visits the following day. He looks exhausted; the way he sags against the chair, the dark circles under his eyes, his tired gaze. He runs a hand through his hair but instead of looking disheveled, ends up looking stylishly tousled.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t be an asshole.”

“I asked for some guarantees and he refused,” Hux calmly explains, though he doesn’t expect Dameron to side with him.

Dameron looks completely unconvinced when he asks, “is that actually what happened?”

It’s an interpretation of the events, but Hux chooses to remain silent.

Dameron sighs. “I want you to help with this, okay? Tell me you will.” He even nods a couple of times to better sway Hux in his direction.

“Just because you’re asking nicely?”

“Because you have literally nothing to lose by doing this. You could choose to do a good thing here.”

“I’m losing leverage.”

“I’m not a government official. I can’t make assurances about your future—”

“You’re persuasive,” Hux says.

“—but I will do everything in my power to make sure you get a second chance _if you want it._ “

 _If you work for it_ , he means. “A second chance to do what?”

“Well, not to terrorize the galaxy,” he says with amusement.

Hux scowls to cover the wince that almost threatens to manifest. “You have purged the galaxy of all evil now, I assume.” It’s the closest he’s come to ask if Ren is dead. He is almost afraid the answer will be ‘no.’ Or worse, some platitude about how he redeemed himself. If he died, then Hux won. He’s content with spending the rest of his life in a New Republic prison as long as he has the knowledge that he managed to breathe for a second longer than Ren did.

“I’m not naive if that’s what you’re thinking. I know it doesn’t work like that.” Dameron pauses. “For the record, I was glad when we found you. There weren’t— you were the only prisoner on board, did you know that?”

“Yes.” If Dameron is trying to elicit some sort of sentiment in Hux then he is doomed to fail.

“Those were your own people,” Dameron says slowly, as if imparting great wisdom or informing Hux of something that he missed.

“I was working with the enemy, so not exactly.” He turns to look at the entrance. Escape could be within his reach; his leg is fine now, he doesn’t feel as tired anymore. “I was lucky I didn’t get blasted and left for dead on the bridge.”

“You were tortured,” Dameron says bluntly. “You were bloodied and bruised all over. All the fingers in your right hand were broken, your shoulder was dislocated. Do you need me to keep going?” He’s unflinching in his description, as if Hux didn’t carry the evidence in his body. “Maybe you were lucky there wasn’t time for Kylo Ren to get his hands on you. Have you ever had the unique experience of him trampling through your mind and leaving his muddy footprints behind?”

Hux clenches his jaw. “Yes.”

Dameron presses two fingers against the bridge of his nose and laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, good times.”

“Why were you glad you found me?”

Dameron looks down and bites his lip before turning his gaze on Hux. “There was a lot going on, all of it at the same time. It only dawned on me that we shouldn’t have left you behind when it was already too late.”

Seeing as Hux is free to live another day, it obviously wasn’t too late. “It was a strategically sound decision. Furthermore, it was war. I wasn’t unaware of the possible outcomes. I was not looking to fall back on a rescue attempt.”

Dameron looks at him for a long moment, quietly and intently. “I want you to help Finn with the datafiles. Will you do it?”

Hux swallows. “Yes. They might be too corrupted to be recoverable, though.”

“That’s okay, I still want you to try.” Dameron has clearly a high esteem of his abilities to persuade people and since Hux just validated him, he continues with his politely worded demands. “I also want you to help Rose set up a database of secret First Order sympathizers. Senators, diplomats, merchants, anyone that you might remember.”

Hux scoffs. “I have a perfect recollection. I remember everyone and everything.”

It isn’t meant to be an agreement but Dameron takes it as such. “Even better. Thank you,” he says earnestly and places his hand on top of his knee, over the blanket.

Hux feels his stomach drop, the same myoclonic jerk he felt on the wreckage, except this time they’re on solid ground.

They’ve just brought him breakfast (or it could be lunch. The room doesn’t let a lot of natural light through and he’s been sleeping a lot) when she pokes her head through the door.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Her words are deceptively friendly. Pretending she couldn’t follow in Ren’s footsteps and make him do whatever she wanted.

Hux puts down the (thankfully) flavorless gruel they served him, feeling too on edge to eat now, not wanting to do it in front of someone else. “I suppose.”

She’s carrying a tray with several plates and cups, some piled together on top of one another. He wonders who else might be joining them and then wonders how she’s managing to keep all the food from overbalancing and falling to the floor. The answer must be the Force, of course.

“I’m Rey. I don’t think we were properly introduced,” she says as she sits down, moving things away from the side table to make room for her tray.

“I am—” he starts but doesn’t know how to continue. Surely she knows who he is.

“General Hux, I know. Would you like me to call you something else?”

“Just Hux.” His rank is only one of the many things he lost.

She nods agreeably and doesn’t make an obnoxious comment like _okay, Just Hux_ the way Dameron would.

“Is Ren dead?” he blurts out, unable and unwilling to take the suspense any longer.

“He is,” she says somberly. A strong undercurrent of grief fills that short phrase and he almost recoils, disgusted with her, disgusted that anyone would care for Ren.

He knows better than to voice his thoughts to someone who shared some sort of connection to Ren and shares his abilities, so he forces himself to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” He resents that the words even make it past his lips. Resents her.

She frowns at him, pausing with a piece of fruit halfway through her mouth. “It’s not my loss. It’s a loss of what — who — he could’ve been.”

“But wasn’t,” he adds pointedly.

She nods. “But wasn’t.” After a too-brief lull in the conversation, she adds, “I heard about the work you’ve been doing with Finn.”

“Oh, is he unsatisfied with the results? Does he suspect me of concealing information? Is that why you’re here? He sent you to extract it from me?”

“He wouldn’t send me to do that. He wouldn’t do it himself either.” The last part is said as a reassurance, but it reads to Hux as a threat. It means there’s a reason he _could_ do it himself. “He really wouldn’t,” she repeats, probably using the Force to sense his discomfort.

Hux tries to appear calm and control his breathing but feels himself unraveling. He has a brief moment where he wishes Dameron were in the room, which is as humiliating as things can possibly get. It’s everyone’s insistence in portraying him as a hero that has gotten Hux confused.

“He’s not like that. He’s different, better — than me, even. Finn is—” she cuts herself off, but he doesn’t need the Force to see through the surge of _feeling_ that thinking about him has evoked in her. _Oh, it’s like that_ , he thinks. He feels almost bad for having disparaged her taste earlier.

“I understand.” Hux doesn’t believe her, but he can see that she does. In any case, he doesn’t want to be subjected to the poetry she no doubt writes in her head about Finn.

“Have you tried this? I got it on Tatooine,” she asks him after a long moment where he stares at her, appalled by the speed with which she eats. “It’s too sweet for me.” Before he can stop her, she’s passing a small plate of the oval-shaped, red fruit cut into slices.

She looks at him expectantly until he bites into one of the slices. It’s sweet but it has a citric edge to it. It leaves his mouth dry but wanting more. He’s never tasted anything like it.

He, surprisingly enough, finds himself liking it.

“Who are you?” he asks the masked person he finds sitting in front of him when he wakes up. He wishes people would stop inviting themselves into his room.

They open the visor of their helmet and green eyes stare back at him. “I’m Zorii. I’m a friend of Poe.”

“Oh. Would you mind removing the mask? Please,” he adds reluctantly. He thought at least his days of dealing with masked lunatics were over. He stares at her for a moment after she places her helmet in her lap. There’s something familiar about her, about her demeanor, but he’s certain he’s never met her before. “How have I wronged you?” he still asks just to make sure.

“Personally? You haven’t, though I suppose there’s always time,” she says, lifting one shoulder in a tight and graceful manner. “In general, though? I lost my homeworld because of you. In more ways than one, actually.” Her posture is tense but controlled and her voice is flat and void of emotion. It’s much more effective than if she tried a tearful act. He feels something within him respond to her.

“Your homeworld?” Hux supposes it says something about him that his first thought was _which one?_

“Kijimi. I lived there all my life. I was planning on leaving, but now I have nothing to go or even look back to.”

 _Good_ , he thinks. There’s something to be said for obliterating the physical and geographical evidence of your past. He doesn’t verbalize it, though. It would be misconstrued and he doesn’t have enough evidence to assure him that he could convince her to see things his way. “I had no part in the destruction of Kijimi. If this is how Dameron plans to conjure guilt in me, tell him his attempt was subpar.”

She frowns. “Poe just asked me to check in on you while he’s off-world.”

“Let me guess, you didn’t want to but he has that effect on people.”

Amusement crosses her features as she says, “no, I was available and I wanted to help. In any way I could. I’m familiar with the effect you mention, though. I assume you are as well.”

Hux looks away. He scans the room for a cooling unit, anything that could relieve the room of its oppressive heat. There is one in the right corner of the room, next to a shelf with a hypodermic injector and bone-knitter and above a low steel table. It must be malfunctioning.

“You have ‘checked in on me’ now. You are free to leave,” he says in his most commanding tone. When it fails to have the required effect, he turns his back to her on the bed. Hux doesn’t care that he’s openly sulking. He has no appearances or standards to maintain here. He tries not to let the thought feel freeing.

“How was your off-world mission?” Hux asks, finally able to leave the medbay and wander the base. It’s not exactly an improvement. The air is humid and suffocating, the sun unforgiving and the foliage creeping and invasive.

Dameron turns to look at him, something measuring in his gaze. “It went well. Thank you for asking,” he says carefully, not volunteering any actual information about it.

There’s nothing Hux could do with that information, even if he had it. It would only serve to occupy his time, something to think about that wasn’t an endless rehash of his past actions. “Did you engage in your usual heroics?”

Dameron laughs, moves until he’s in front of him, walking backward. Hux notices his posture, easy and relaxed; the blaster firmly strapped to his left thigh, the undone buttons on his shirt collar. He blinks away and turns to face the burning sun, the clear sky.

“I guess there were some daring maneuvers involved,” he says. Hux looks at him again, tracks his movements as he walks to his right. The sun reflects now directly on him, only reaching Hux filtered through his body.

“How is work on the datafiles coming along?”

“I assume you already know and you would have already been alerted if I hadn’t been on my best behavior.”

Dameron casually inclines his head in agreement as if being considered Hux’s handler isn’t appalling. “I’m glad it’s going well. Even Rose conceded you weren’t as awful as you could’ve been.”

It feels like an insult. Not calling him ‘awful’ but implying he’s gotten mellow. “You mean you’re glad I’m earning your rescue.”

“You enjoy that, don’t you?” Before Hux can retort that he doesn’t enjoy _anything_ about his new shell of a life (except maybe the uninterrupted sleep he gets. A brand new experience), Dameron continues. “Choosing to be blind to the decency and kindness around you. Expecting the worst from everyone despite all evidence to the contrary.”

Hux looks around them but it’s early and there aren’t a lot of people nearby. Just the vast jungle, the greenery all around them, the natural canopies formed by the trees’ long yellow leaves. “I only meant—” he starts before being rudely interrupted. A bad habit people seem to have around here.

“I know that’s what you’re used to but I am telling you that you don’t have to expect that from us. I won’t treat you like that.”

Hux tries to swallow and feels his throat close up. They just can’t help themselves here. Everything has to be uncomfortably personal. _I won’t treat you like that_. The words lodge themselves in his brain and shake something loose in his chest; new and terrifying.

“Are you tired? We can go back,” Dameron asks when he notices that Hux has stopped, rooted to the spot, uncertain of how to move forward.

“No, I want to keep going,” he says.

Dameron hovers one hand on the small of his back, guiding but not pushing.


End file.
